


Lazarus

by TowardTheStars



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, B is a creep, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Death Note: Another Note, Romance, but he's a cute creep, terrible flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 08:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18206096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TowardTheStars/pseuds/TowardTheStars
Summary: Naomi Misora didn't expect to wake up after Kira killed her. She certainly hadn't expected to wake up with B crouching over her.Naomi Misora discovers her worth, Beyond Birthday falls in love, L and Light deal with an irritating ex-KGB agent and a death-obsessed cult, and Ryuk is just along for the ride.





	Lazarus

 

_Look up here, I'm in heaven_   
_I've got scars that can't be seen_   
_I've got drama, can't be stolen_   
_Everybody knows me now_

_Lazarus, David Bowie_

* * *

 

             “I am Kira,” he said, the words searing through the air like fiery coals pressed upon skin.

               It certainly felt that way to Misora who gasped at the confession and the way Kira stared at her with a cruel glint of victory. The three words fell like an impossible, deadly secret and froze Misora to the bone. She could tell Kira relished it as he smirked at her ID and the name plastered in unflinching, black letters.

            He had taken her name, written it down on a scrap of paper, and cast it aside like it was nothing more to him than a discarded wrapper.

            With it, Misora could feel Death wrap its spindly fingers around her. Her bones creaked as the unsightly god embraced her. She suppressed a sob as she felt its touch settle on her. She wanted to scream at her helplessness, rage at the haughty boy who played with being god, and cry at the utter wretchedness of the situation.

            She wanted to live, god damn it. She wanted to find L and send Kira to hell. She wanted to return to the FBI and let the world know why she was called Misora Massacre.

            She certainly didn’t want to die by the hands of a boy.

            Fate gave her no choice in the outcome, and with steady steps, she walked away. The destination was set in her bones, and while her mind wheeled, nothing she did reversed the course. Her death was sealed.

            A suicide of all things. Misora wanted to choke in the indigence. She had suffered, but she would never have taken her life. To die defeated enraged her more than the fact she was to die.

            Her countenance remained impassive despite her seething emotions. Her feet slowly led her away from the city. Death directed her, and she recoiled at the sticky strings binding herself to it.

            She was a fly in a spider web when she should have been the fucking spider.

            She continued walking and gradually the city morphed around her. The towering buildings had yielded to dilapidated factories. People deserted the streets. A mangy dog barked at her. She paid it no attention.

            Instead, Death led her to a dock. She peered down into the steely water. Waves lapped gently at the wooden posts, but the river provided only death to her. Her eyes spotted an anchor, and a frustrated terror burst in her as her hands reached down and looped a rope around her. Attached to the anchor, the rope would drag her to a watery grave. No one would ever find her. Just as Kira had instructed.

            Every action occurred methodically, and her breathing remained steady even though fear coursed through her. With the anchor wrapped securely around her, she had nothing else to do but take two steps off.

            For every movement in her life, these two defined everything. Two steps and she died with the knowledge of Kira’s identity. Two steps and it was over for her.

            Mustering every ounce of her strength, she tried to halt her traitorous body. For a moment, her body stilled, but just as quickly, her body betrayed her.

            One.

            Two.

            The water submerged her, and she choked at the frigidness. Her breath strained against her lips and burning started to consume her chest. It took four minutes to die from suffocation, and as the anchor dragged her deeper, Misora relented to the soothing curl of water around her.

            She drifted downwards, closing her stinging eyes. Four minutes, and it ended.

            So intent on the time, she barely noticed hands scrabbling against her waist. The last thing she remembered before losing herself to darkness was a painful jerk as someone, something pulled her upwards.

* * *

 

 

            Time faded into nonexistence, and Misora assumed that this was what death must feel like. A state of darkness, of nothingness, of the faintest hints of pain. However, something felt wrong. She could feel herself drifting in and out of consciousness and remembered blearily opening her eyes until darkness once again consumed her. But death was absolute. It shouldn’t have allowed for a variance in consciousness.

            Sometimes, when she felt like she had awoken (except she still didn’t understand how one could awake from death), a hand would gently stroke her forehead or press a glass against her lips. She would drink greedily, even though she knew dead people didn’t need to drink. Other times, it would be soup, only deepening her confusion. The hands would push back her hair, adjust the pillow, and press cool clothes against her forehead. For that, she was grateful.

            Initially, the pain felt like a distant light – a beacon from a lighthouse while one was miles away and safely onshore. She ignored it when she could. It made everything easier.

            The tide, however, slowly swept in. Slow at first, a trickle of water against her toes. Then a wave against her knees. Then a tsunami that swept her off her feet and brought the light to her and drowned her in excruciating pain. Pain on a level she couldn’t comprehend.  

            She had plunged into hell, for she could imagine nothing worse.  

            The pain took on a physical presence. It became another body pressed into her, tearing up her muscle and writing itself into her DNA. It turned the intricate contraptions of her existence against her and tore her apart cell by cell.

            Every muscle burned, every thought was accompanied by streams of fire, her brittle bones felt liable to break at the slightest movement, and her heart was confined by such intense heat and pressure that she couldn’t even cry out in pain.

            All she could do was lay there and plead for the pain to pass.

            She felt like it was stretching into eternity. Her body, consumed by agony, rejected her and left her as nothing more than a collection of feeble thoughts. She sensed Death scraping against her skin and demanding entrance.

            It tempted her to submit and let herself fall deeply into its cooling embrace. She badly wanted to give in.

            She didn’t though. She didn’t know why she didn’t, but every so often a voice would croon distantly and the pain would lessen slightly and hope would flutter weakly in her chest.

            She refused Death’s advances and continued to lie there, desperate for salvation.

            Minutes, hours, days, months, years later, she opened her eyes and gasped softly. She shivered and drew in a breath that didn’t send tendrils of pain screaming through her. She breathed again. And again. And again.

            She blinked, certain of trickery. The pain, the ungodly, overpowering agony, had vanished. While a soreness had settled deep in her bones, the fiery force behind the anguish had dissipated. She could breathe, and with unsteady movements, she could turn her head and lift her hand.

            Tears made paths down her cheeks as she cried out in gratitude for whatever had removed the torment. It was rebirth, and Misora couldn’t suppress her emotions. The tears turned into sobs.

            A gentle hand brushed against her cheeks and she leaned into its warmth. Sobs racked her.

            Relief overpowered her, and she wanted to laugh and scream and cry. The anguish had wrecked her, but it hadn’t defeated her. She had survived.

            She had survived.

            Eventually, the tears subsided. Misora drew in shaky breaths and attempted to settle her heartrate. After a couple of minutes, Misora felt strong enough to push gently against the bed and shift her body upwards. With her head resting at an angle against the pillow, she could better view the situation.

            It left her dizzy, but not screaming in pain, so Misora counted it as a victory.

            Misora groaned as her head pounded. Her breath still came out in raspy gasps. Every thought came like a slow drip from a broken faucet, and she lifted a hand to soothe her forehead. She noted that she was lying on a bed and had no memory of ever returning home.

            Keeping her eyes open despite the discomfort, she slowly tilted her head to better examine the room. A wave of dizziness struck her, and she froze. When it passed, she tried again, and this time she had greater success.

            From her limited vantage point, the room appeared nondescript. The walls were painted an ugly tan and devoid of any artwork. There was a simple wooden wardrobe in the corner, and a nightstand holding only a lamp adjacent to her. As unremarkable as the room was, something flickered in the corner of her vision.

She glanced around, and her eyes rested on the man who perched precariously on the end of the bed. He stared at her with, dare she say it, pride? Her eyes flickered shut but she forced them open. The man continued to stare at her with the peculiar expression.

            Twisting her head again, she stared up at a man who now crouched over. Before she could think, she flung her hand out and punched the man as hard as she could on the cheek. The man reeled backwards, clutching his face, and stumbling onto the ground. Seizing her chance, Misora swung her feet off the bed and pushed herself upwards. She took one step before her knees gave out under her and red flares of agony filled her head.

            Falling forward, she grasped her head and desperately prayed for the pain to pass. Eventually, it subsided, and she let out a shuddering sigh. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she moaned for some water.

            The man must have heard her cry because a hand extended with a glass of water and raised it to Misora’s lips. Misora drank greedily but winced as her throat convulsed around the liquid. She started coughing, causing the man to withdraw the cup and place a steadying hand on her back.

            They remained like that for a while until Misora regained her strength. Drawing in a deep breath, Misora glanced up and looked at her captor.

            A man stared back at her. He appeared young, early twenties. Tan, probably Hispanic. Black hair lay in an unruly mess on the top of his head. Strong cheekbones and jawline, and no significant piercings or markings. Her quick scan revealed nothing of significant note, until she looked into the man’s eyes.

            They were red. Red like blood seeping from gunshot wounds. Red like anger consuming one’s vision. Red like no eyes should ever appear. Worst of all, they seemed to glow in the light like bloodied stars weeping with the tears of gods.

            Scratch that. Worst of all, the eyes seemed familiar. Misora could swear she had never seen him before, but his demeanor oozed with familiarity. A distorted familiarity, yet her gut told her she knew the man.

            The man stared at her with his unnerving eyes, before smiling. Well, more like pulling his lips back and baring his teeth in a faint resemblance of a smile. It was a terrifying sight, but it didn’t seem to hold any malice. Misora let out a breath she had been holding and waited for the man to speak.

            “Naomi Misora,” the man stated. Misora had expected the man’s voice to be low and gravelly, but it was actually quite melodious as it purred over each syllable. Again, the voice sent shivers of familiarity through Misora, but she couldn’t place it.

            “Misora,” the man repeated. “It’s been a while.”

            “I don’t…” Misora stuttered out. The headache confined each thought. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

            The man chuckled sharply. “Oh, Misora, how could you ever forget someone like me?”

            The question prickled at Misora’s skin, hinting at someone who she knew she would never forget. But he was in jail, locked away for lifetimes, and she would have been alerted if ever managed to escape.

            “Why don’t you just tell me your name?” Misora asked softly. The man’s feral smile widened.

            “Where’s the fun in that? C’mon Misora, you’re a smart cookie. You figured it out before,” the man teased, running a cold hand through Misora’s hair.

            Misora shuddered at the contact initially and then at the realization crashing into her like tormented waves on unmoving rock.

            “That’s impossible,” she muttered. She closed her eyes, hoping the darkness would bring some clarity.

            “Nope. Nothing’s impossible,” the man chuckled.

            “But they put you in jail,” Misora forced out. “You couldn’t have escaped.”

            “Escaping from jail was the easy bit.”

            “But L would have…I would have known…”

            The man shook his head vehemently. “Not this time.”

            Another though struck Misora in the onslaught. “Your appearance…”

            The man ran a hand across his face. “You’d be surprised at how easy it is to disguise oneself.”

            Misora lay silently as she struggled to comprehend the information. Her mind was wrapped in circles, entwined with thorns. The minutes ticked on, and finally, she forced herself to realize the impossible.

            “Ryuzaki,” she began, breaking the silence. “Are you here to kill me?”

            “B,” the man replied shortly.

            “Huh?”

            “I am no longer Ryuzaki. I am B.”

            “B,” Misora whispered, the letter curling on her tongue. The master criminal, the serial killer, the eccentric genius, the one L had warned her about in the years before.

            B nodded. “To answer your question, no, I am not here to kill you.”

            The words didn’t bring any comfort to Misora. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her, but this man had murdered a child, so there was no knowing what horrors he could conceive.

            “Then why,” Misora swallowed thickly, wincing at the scratchiness in the throat. “Why are you here? How did you get out? What…?” The questions bubbled out of her in half-formed thoughts.

            “Funnily enough, I came here to save your life Misora,” B answered.

            “Huh?” Confusion descended over Misora.

            “Crazy, right?” B teased, laughing slightly. Misora stared up at him perplexed. “Enough about that. I’ll explain it later when you’re better rested. You can’t just drown yourself and expect to be okay.”

            Misora’s confusion deepened. Drown herself? What was he talking about? Admittedly, the last day was a blur of fragmented pieces, but why the hell would she drown herself? Sure, now that she thought about it, she did remember the cool embrace of water, but it could just as easily be a figment of her imagination.

            The thoughts sent fingers of pain to massage her mind and she whimpered. B sighed, and in one fluid motion, slid his arms underneath Misora and picked her up. He placed her back in the bed and pulled the covers over her. Taking a wet cloth, he laid it over Misora’s forehead, and she sighed at the sensation.

            Her eyes flickered shut as her mind gave over to rest, and just before she succumbed to sleep, she saw B muttering and rubbing his cheek.

            _Serves you right, you son of a bitch_ she thought as darkness obscured her vision.

* * *

 

            Misora didn’t know how long she slept for, but when she woke up again, the soreness and pain remained. It felt like she was recovering from a month-long bout of the flu, and every part of her body ached. However, the pain had yet to return, and she felt marginally better from the last time she had woken.

            She opened her eyes and glanced around the room. B sat beside her, thumbing through a book.

             “B,” Misora rasped. Her throat ached and her windpipe protested at the sound.

            “Misora,” he responded, putting down the book and turning towards her. His eyes never left her face. “You’re still alive.” There was that pride again and something almost like disbelief.

            Misora started to nod but stopped quickly. She licked her lips. “Yes.”

            B watched her silently, his expression unreadable. Suddenly, he leaned forward. Misora jerked back, but the pillow halted her. Hovering over her, B darted abruptly and with cool lips, pressed a kiss against her cheek.

            Just as quickly, he had pulled away and returned to his weird crouching position.

            The action was so unexpected that she didn’t know what to make of it. Misora struggled to speak.

            B shook his head. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t speak. Just sleep, okay? You need to rest after…” he looked away.

            Misora was tempted to refuse, but exhaustion tore at her skin. Against her will, she shut her eyes and leaned back into the pillow. Sleep crept up on her, and she let it come.

            Before she fell into its embrace, she heard B stand up and walk towards the door. An unreasonable fear overtook her, and she whimpered. B paused.

            “What is it?” he spoke softly.

            Misora didn’t know, but the terror was so pungent and felt like the claws of a tiger tearing at her skin. “Stay,” she gasped. “Please.”

            After a moment, B moved back and sat down on the bed. He extended a hand and traced Misora’s cheek. He then grasped Misora’s hand, and she almost started crying again as the contact drove back the fear.

            Gripping tightly onto his hand, Misora drifted away into a vast galaxy of obsidian.

 

 


End file.
